


the fire between his teeth

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Grief-Induced Sex, M/M, Past Adam/Shiro - Freeform, Post-Kerberos Mission, depending on how old you think Keith was, read the tags, this may or may not be your cup of tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 02:05:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17695535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: “That’s enough,” Adam says, but his teeth are clenched, and Keith knows that look, recognizes it in himself, even. Adam wants a fight.Well, Keith will fucking give it to him.Or, after the memorial, there's a confrontation in Shiro's old room.





	the fire between his teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Home Truths](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15445341) by [concernedlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/concernedlily/pseuds/concernedlily). 



It’s the memorial, and Shiro’s dog tags are surprisingly light around his neck.

 _Here,_ Shiro had said _. I know you’ll take care of them when I’m gone._

The dog tags had made the softest jingle when laid gently in his palm, ridged loops dangling from his fingers. _Takashi Shirogane._ Nothing carved about his disease or his birthdate or even his name with the characters that Keith always manages to fuck up while writing birthday cards. They always look childish, traced on, but Shiro always smiles, says he’s touched, offers to tutor Keith in the language Keith knows Shiro hardly remembers himself. _We can learn together._

Keith had wanted to hurl them into the grass, right in front of the stone memorial and the flowers and the sea of black fabric and gold stars and stripes—but he couldn’t. Couldn’t lose anymore of Shiro.

He didn’t cry. How fucked up was that? Shiro w—is his whole world, and he couldn’t even fucking cry? Shed one tear? But no, not in front of everyone, those solemn faces who walked up to the podium and gave another banal speech, acting like they _knew_ Shiro for more than what they say him: Garrison’s golden boy, their star pilot, the record-breaker.

Colleen Holt refused to speak, but she’s now clasping his hand tightly in hers during one of the speeches, saying something about coming to dinner sometime—but how could he? Matt and Sam were Shiro’s, not his; he hasn’t even met Matt’s little sister, only heard about her through occasional beaming stories— _Katie’s so smart, Katie’s got all of her classmates beat, Katie’s going to go farther than any one of us_ —

_Keith’s a discipline case, Keith doesn’t get along with any of his peers, Keith’s not going to go anywhere—maybe to trade school if he’s lucky—_

Fuck. He waits until no one’s looking and swipes an arm across his face. It’s bright orange, this stupid cadet suit, one of the few formal things he owns, but there was no fucking way he was going to show up in his red hoodie and jeans as if he didn’t care—

_Pilot error. Pilot error. Pilot error._

He no longer cares. He has to go, go where? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t have anywhere to go. He could get one of the Garrison’s hoverbikes and run, run far away to the horizon, back to his dad’s shack, but cadets aren’t allowed to check out hoverbikes, and Shiro had made an exception for him— _The kid’s only here because you vouched for him_ —and he could steal one, knows it’s probably the best time, fucking empty because of the fucking service, but he can’t—he can’t—he has nowhere to go, after all.

But he has to leave somehow. Has to get away.

Someone squeezes his shoulder, and he flinches away—only Shiro was allowed to touch him like that—and suddenly, he’s _running._

To where? He doesn’t know, but his feet carry him across the concrete, away from the crowds, past all the barracks and classrooms and airfield with glittering rockets, like the one Shiro first showed him, the Calypso, the first voyage to Jupiter, three years—

They had said it would be about a year. A year, Shiro had promised, and he’d be back in time for Keith’s graduation. They would go out to dinner, just the two of them, make a day of it, and Keith would convince Shiro to let him have a drink, or a sip of one, and they’d go to the canyon, to _their place,_ and talk about Kerberos, if gathering all those specimens was actually kind of boring after all, if they ran into any aliens Matt was always talking about. And they’d—

No, not Shiro. Never Shiro. For Keith, Shiro was as unreachable as the stars, in the depths of space—

No bodies recovered. A crash. Three photos across every news station.

He stops right in front of a familiar door, always propped open to receive guests to the room where he’d laid on the floor, chewing his pen while flicking through beat-up textbook. Where snacks were strewn across nearly every surface, thanks to Matt’s late-night cram sessions or Shiro’s constant need to feed other people, always whisked away into the closet when inspections came calling. Where Keith had fallen asleep a few times—on purpose, at least twice—always on the bed or floor, with a stray blanket covering him when he woke up in the morning.

Shiro made him breakfast, sometimes, or snuck him some tea, made with an illegal hot plate. _We’re in a military dormitory, not college. I’m surprised they let us have a microwave._

It’s too easy to break in.

He’d sat here once or twice after the launch, but didn’t like it, the emptiness, the silence, despite everything being laid out for Shiro for the moment he got back. The bed was made up, hospital corners and starched pillowcases, with the desk with the books and chocolate-chip energy bars he couldn’t take. And a stray jacket, flung over a chair, as if Shiro had just stepped out for the night and would be back soon.

A wild urge seizes him; he can take whatever he wants. No one can stop him; Shiro was—

“Keith? What are you doing here?”

Keith bristles, whirls around. “I could say the same thing to you.”

Adam, in the doorway, raises his chin, so fucking calm—too fucking calm. And that’s why Shiro loved him, Keith knows, the infinite patience and grounding, so different from his own fire-stoked temper. “I’m asking you. You ran from the memorial; you—”

“You don’t have the right,” Keith snaps. “You broke up with _him._ ”

Adam actually flinches. “I know that,” he says lowly. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Keith says. “Because they’re treating you like you’re still—” The words tangle in his throat, clenching and unclenching like fists. _Adam,_ Shiro had said, with a fond smile. _Adam, we might marry someday,_ and Keith had swallowed a familiar disappointment and forced himself to smile back.

“They feel _sorry_ for you,” he finally spits out. “And you walked away from him.”

Adam’s eyes grow hard. Good. It’s nice to know that Adam feels _something_ other than his fucking infinite patience. “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you know that almost makes it worse?”

Keith lashes out, cutting blow, to make Adam feel even remotely like him, this pain that collapses like stars in his chest, burning him from the inside out; it’ll kill him, he’s sure. “You should have stopped him!”

“I tried!” Adam yells back, stepping into the room— _Shiro’s room_ —he remembers when Shiro had packed away Adam’s things, a tight line across his face, resigned and heavy. The door thuds closed, automatic lock clicking into place, but none of them notice. “I tried; didn’t Takashi tell you? I did it, the old _it’s him or me,_ except the _him_ was fucking space, and how was I supposed to compete with that, with his need to leave Earth behind, to live while he still could?”

“You didn’t try hard enough!” Keith shouts, and shoves Adam.

In hindsight, he’s surprised to have landed anything on anyone military-trained, especially one that was the Garrison’s top fighter pilot, but Adam either is too startled or takes the blow willingly, falling backwards onto the couch.

Keith lunges at him, something he hasn’t done since that fight with James, since he promised Shiro to not give up, to try—but it doesn’t matter.

His fist punches forward—only to be stopped with a sharp smack, the sound of palm striking flesh—and Adam looks up at him from the couch, eyes fierce behind his glasses, hair slightly falling in his face.

“That’s enough,” he says, but his teeth are clenched, and Keith knows that look, recognizes it in himself, even. Adam wants a fight.

Well, Keith will fucking give it to him.

He tries again, using his leverage to pin Adam down on the couch—“Keith, that’s enough, stop right now”—and takes another swing, but keeps _missing_ —and Adam’s the one flipping them over, hands holding him down, telling him to _stop, that’s enough, calm down_ —and Keith fights back, tasting copper and bile, pulling Adam down, down on top of him again, and their lips suddenly meet.

Adam’s hands are on his body now, gripping the shoulders of his uniform, grey clashing against orange, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, and Keith reaches out to yank them off and toss them across the room, watching them smack against the opposite wall, falling onto the carpeted floor—and Adam hisses, nose pressing into Keith’s neck, breath hot below his ear.

His back’s being pressed into the couch, and his legs flail slightly in the air, unsure of where to go. He can feel the cushions through his clothes, the empty space between the couch and the floor, Adam’s weight on his. Keith closes his fingers around Adam’s hair and pulls—nails digging purposefully into Adam’s scalp, he hopes it fucking hurts—and Adam hisses between his teeth and begins to undo the buttons of Keith’s jacket.

Keith helps him, his own fingers clumsy with adrenaline, and it lands soundlessly on the carpet. He’s wearing one of his black t-shirts underneath, and Adam pulls it up, up his stomach and bends his head down, teasing him with his tongue and teeth, pressing his fingers—slightly calloused—against the bumps of Keith’s ribs, his hips.

It’s his first time, and yes, he’d dreamed of being with Shiro—Shiro so gentle and encouraging like he was in everything, curling his fingers through his barely regulation-length hair, the passion underneath his skin but controlled, contained—and not at all like this, not with another heap of clothes falling onto the floor, carelessly—he thinks it’s Adam’s jacket this time—not with nails biting into skin, skin burning like the time he tumbled off into cacti when he was five years old, scratching and clawing at the scabs, feeling them underneath his bitten fingernails—

His shirt is whisked off, past his eyes and over his head, and Keith blindly reaches out, touches Adam’s bare chest, rests his palm there. Adam is muscled in almost the same way Shiro is, and Keith raises his hips, sinks his face into a nearby pillow, hisses when wet fingers press inside him, underneath his pants, not knowing or caring if it’s spit or leftover lube.

His other hand curls into Adam’s shoulder, bracing him, and for a moment, he feels stupid, so stupid and clumsy because he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with his hands, has never really thought about it too much—but Adam blows all of that away, pressing him further into the couch, placing sloppy kisses against bare skin—and Keith swats him impatiently, a sharp _whap_ against the side of Adam’s head, tells him to hurry, hurry up, he’s fucking _burning—_

It’s an ache, an uncomfortableness, but Keith wraps his legs around Adam’s hips, pulls him closer, nails digging deeper into flesh, hopes crescents will be indented underneath the uniform. His neck is at a weird angle, and something light slips across his jaw, down into the cushions—

_Shiro._

_"Shiro,”_ he gasps.

Above him, Adam hisses again, sharp and pained, but doesn’t stop, and Keith closes his eyes, pulls Adam closer, _Shiro Shiro Shiro_ beating staccato and furious and relentless in his chest, dog tags slipping further and further across his jaw, over his ear, like a caress. He remembers the purr of the engine underneath his hands, the flying across the desert sunset, the wind whipping through his eyes, goggles clinging to his nose and straps tangling in his hair. He remembers Shiro leaning against his own bike, dark hair falling across his forehead, goggles pushed up, arms crossed, smiling down at him. And he remembers the last foray onto the roof, the swirl of stars above, so peaceful compared to the chaotic shoving of the launch date, of Shiro taking him for a brief foray into the cockpit, of him slipping the dog tags into Keith’s hands.

 _I won’t tell you to stay,_ Keith had said, just as the final call for launch, for civilians to leave the launch pad _now_ , blared. _Just to come back._

 _I will,_ Shiro replied. His hands were still on Keith’s, so warm, so steady--then, one last squeeze, with something soft brushing against his cheek. _I promise._

* * *

When it’s over, when they’re sweating and stupid and exhausted, Keith turns on his side, tries to catch his breath, still not really aware—but he _knows,_ fucking hell—what happened.

Silver gleams against dark fabric, and Keith finally sits up, still panting, swiping a stray lock out of his face, metal pressing cool into the middle of his palm.

Adam, still above him, makes a noise in the back of his throat, then freezes at the sight of Shiro’s dog tags clenched in Keith’s fist.

Keith locks eyes with him, raising his chin, gaze sharper than anything the world can ever throw at him. “They’re mine,” he says.

Adam lowers his gaze in surrender. “This can’t happen again,” he says, finally pulling away to pick his jacket off the floor.

* * *

It happens again, and twice the next evening.

Maybe Adam is making up for the first time, or something, because this time, he’s tender, tender like Keith imagined Shiro would be—or tender like _he_ used to be with Shiro. Adam mouths at his neck, past the stiff, orange collar, down his hips, and Keith finally kicks out, fucking wanting him to stop pussyfooting and _fuck_ him already, drown out the grief that’s threatening to drag him down, tumble him off a cliff without a chance of rising again—

Keith grips Adam by all the hanks of hair he can fist in his hands and _yanks_ with all his strength. He wants all of it to go away, to disappear, to shoot off into the horizon or space—wherever, as long as it’s far. He knows Adam is hurting, too, but they fucking _acknowledge_ him. Send him condolences. Cards. Casseroles _._

Everyone knows what Adam meant to Shiro, and what Shiro meant to Adam. No one extends Keith the same courtesy, if he ever truly had it.

“Fucking hurry _up_ ,” he hisses, pulling Adam closer, close enough that he can bury his face into the space between Adam’s shoulder and neck, closing out the world around him. The dog tags shift underneath his shirt, cool over his heart.

Shiro’s the bridge between them both, Keith knows. He’s not stupid.

But he’ll take it.


End file.
